She used it.
Now I have to use mine.
Somewhere past another lonely stretch of highway, I think about Hell Road.
Dead Man’s Curve.
The Widow.
I think about the night Amelia came out of the ditch with August in her arms, boxes in the truck, fear packed into every inch of her body, and a blown tire like the road itself had reached up and stopped her from driving any farther. I think about the pale shape I saw in my mirror. White dress or fog. Woman or guilt. Road ghost or rural bullshit.
By the time Oregon starts showing itself in the air, dry and pine-sharp and mean with rock, I’m worn down past rage into something more dangerous.
Quiet.
Widowmaker eats the miles like she knows we are close.
The burner phone Whiskey gave me buzzes in the inside pocket of my cut just as I pull off near a lookout outside some stretch of godforsaken beauty I don’t have the heart to appreciate. Mountains in the distance. Sky low and cold. Road curling ahead like a challenge.
I stop because the name on the screen is Oaks.
That man doesn’t call to chat unless something is on fire, dead, or both.
I answer. “What?”
“Charming as ever.”
“Talk.”
A pause.
Not good.
My whole body goes still before he says a word.
“Jeremy Vale is dead.”
The world doesn’t stop.
That pisses me off.
Cars keep moving somewhere below. Wind keeps dragging through the scrub. Widowmaker ticks as the engine cools. My heart keeps beating because apparently it has no sense of occasion.
“What?”
“Jeremy is dead,” Oaks says again.
I sit on Widowmaker, one boot planted on gravel, and stare at the Oregon road ahead.
“How?”
“Car accident. Single vehicle. Hell Road. Brake failure. Went off the road, rolled, hit a tree hard enough to make the engine rethink its career.”
A laugh tries to come out of me.
It doesn’t make it.
Brake failure.